


Puerto Vallarta

by seperis



Series: The Atlantis Project [3]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-11
Updated: 2005-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney wonders if he's going to come out of this with a strong inclination toward a life of crime, because John just makes this stuff looking *amazing*.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puerto Vallarta

**Author's Note:**

> At this point, I'm just indulging myself in smut. And it's a *good* excuse, I think. Probably won't make sense if you haven't read Arizona, but smut translates well, doesn't it?

A week of the equivalent of Montezuma's revenge, his own fault for not paying attention when John said, don't drink the water, though hasn't told John that yet. There's bottled water by the case stacked up against the door, doubling as security, since John's taste in motels sucks just as much across the border as it did in Arizona, and a six year old could break the locks.

Opening his eyes, Rodney studies a stationary ceiling for the first time in three days. "I hate you so much." 

John's hand, running soothingly up his bare side, stutters briefly before sliding up to rest on his forehead, gently wiping away the sweat. "Ah. Feeling better?"

Turning his head--and whoa, new experience, but at least the room doesn't shiver--Rodney tries a glare on for size. From the grin on John's face, he fails spectacularly.

"Another shower?" John offers, lifting himself up one elbow. He's not quite the living, breathing sweat-dispenser that Rodney's become--something to do with a childhood in the southwest, and worse, he isn't affected by the water at all, which is sick and wrong,--but the dark hair is sweat-damp, and he stripped to unbuttoned jeans, no underwear.

Heat has its compensations, Rodney thinks, warily rolling onto his side. A token protest from his stomach, but he thinks--thinks being the operative word--that the worst is over.

"Maybe." Yesterday, he hadn't been able to stand up, and John had vanished for fifteen hazy minutes, coming back with something that both smelled and looked worse than anything Rodney could be disposing of in the bathroom toilet, but John had this way of making Rodney do things he'd never consider doing on his own, including something Rodney swears was goat urine.

John shifts closer on the bed, moving Rodney's head to his shoulder. Hot, slick skin, and in this heat, Rodney would think that contact would be the last thing anyone could stand. Even the *air* feels too hot, like a steaming, dusty hand all over his body, but Rodney deserves indulgence and good touch and most especially John's undivided attention, so he murmurs an almost-complaint and closes his eyes.

It seems like far too much trouble to move, anyway.

"How long are we staying here?" Rodney asks, spreading out his fingers on John's chest, just to take in the feel of him. It's all new and strange and frighteningly simple, to fall into casual, meaningless touch that still means *something*, even if it's only comfort. 

"A couple more days." Warm breath feathers across his hair. "Weir's contact's a slippery bastard." Rodney can hear the grin in his voice, even if he can't see it. "Besides, I'm not cleaning the car again. That's just not happening."

Rodney snorts. "Like it's my fault you drive too fast." Mexico must be John's version of heaven--no actually enforceable speeding laws, and he swears they broke two hundred getting here, and not just because they were fleeing the country either. "Something smells." He has a terrible, terrible feeling it's him. "Shower." Which would require *moving*. Not on his top ten list.

John snickers, and Rodney gets a fleeting impression of lips against his forehead before John rolls to his feet and pulls Rodney reluctantly off the bed. "Come on. Shower. You'll feel better."

The water's lukewarm at best, but that's still cooler than the oven-temperature of the room, and Rodney stands still in the tiny bathroom while John patiently strips away the sweat-stained boxers, the only thing Rodney's bothered putting on in the last three days. And if John's hands linger in places that feel far too good, considering the condition Rodney's in, well, that's fine, too. Pulling the cheap plastic curtain aside, he's coaxed into the huge claw-foot bathtub--John's taste in hideouts is shitty, but at least there's a shower in this one, which is more than Rodney can say for the last place--and the water, lukewarm or not, smelling vaguely of sulfur or not, feels *fantastic*. "Oh. God. *Yes*."

The sounds of jeans being stripped away gradually penetrates, and Rodney shifts from leaning against the wall to leaning against John, broad and tall and very, very naked behind him.

"I don't remember inviting you in."

"I can see how unwelcome my presence is." Dryly, and John's breath ghosts across the back of his neck. "Don't move."

"Not--a problem." He could go to sleep like this, almost-cool, no cramping, no frankly disgusting bodily functions requiring a fast and dirty trip to the bathroom, just standing perfectly still while John's callused hands smooth over his skin, and the smell of almost-but-not-quite sulfur and cheap, clean soap fills the tiny space. It feels--perfect. Yes, he could go to sleep like this, just collapse boneless in the chipped porcelain of the tub and stay there, showered with water, until either Weir's contact shows up or John gets bored and they move on.

At this point, Rodney really doesn't care which.

Soapy hands slide up his legs, over his hips, gently down his chest--oh *yes*, where the sweat dries and itches worst--curving over his neck, fingers gently kneading loose every week-tense muscle into liquid. Rodney sighs, eyes closed, when the hands move into his hair, then across his face, over his back, slow and steady, he just sighs. He turns when John's hands move him and stays still when they close tight over his hips.

Then everything stops, because John wet hair brushes his stomach and a hot, wet mouth closes over his cock.

"Whoa."

And he must be better--he feels better, not sleepy, not sick, not tired, not grumpy, and the universe is a marginally less terrible and unforgiving place when John's mouth is involved--he's hard so fast he can barely breathe, grabbing John's shoulders when his knees threaten to give out. "Oh, God."

Looking down is mindblowing, John's perfect mouth stretched around his cock, looking up with a raised eyebrow, dark amusement and easy sexuality, John makes sex easy, makes everything easy, but this, this, this is the best part, hot and good and addictive as hell. 

Then the dark eyes flutter closed, all concentrated intensity, quick and dirty and fast, every excuse for Rodney to just let go, push into that mouth and slide his fingers through glossy wet hair and come when John's clever fingers slide up between his legs and rub, wet and soft and perfect around his balls, press behind sharply and make their slow way toward his ass. Rodney comes just *thinking* about those long fingers pushing inside him, and John's soft laughter around his cock almost makes him come again.

After, John stands up, shiny mouthed and grinning, a quick, messy kiss before urging him out of the shower to fall, wet and naked on the bed again, in the sauna that they call a North American country. Rodney doesn't bother with personal space, draping himself over John, sweat already rising on every bare inch of skin. John wraps around him almost before he's settled.

"It's not so bad here," John says thoughtfully.

"I like it," Rodney answers, closing his eyes sleepily, shifting his head to John's shoulder. "Wake me up tomorrow."

* * *

Rodney would think tortillas, refried beans, rice, and what John swears is not goat meat (Rodney believes him, because he's scared to consider the alternatives) could get repetitive, but Rodney's been on bottled water and some thin brothy stuff for days, so three meals straight of the above is just *fine* and he asks for seconds. John's eyes narrow on him worriedly, taking in the too-loose track pants that appeared magically on the bed when Rodney bothered himself to get up. "Those were your size."

Rodney waves a hand over his sixth tortilla. "Surprise, mortal illness, lost weight! Total shock, I know. Pass the jalapenos." From self-defense, Rodney's picking up a taste for them. Warily, John hands over the bowl, eyebrows arching as Rodney eats one whole. "Just because you have shunned food to keep your figure," John gives him a defensively narrow-eyed glare, "doesn't mean the rest of us have to deny ourselves. God, *burritos*."

"You're such a tourist."

Rodney snorts around a forkful of rice. "Just keep the not-goat coming and I don't care."

John grins and picks up a tortilla--homemade, Rodney thinks, though to be honest, he wouldn't know the difference between that and store bought without a label--folding it in half before taking an elaborate bite. "See? Eating." John's bare foot kicks him under the rickety wooden table, then pauses to slide up the inside of his calf. When Rodney looks up, though, the dark eyes are blank, fixed on air, and Rodney wonders if he's thinking of Ronon again.

There are questions he could ask--should ask--hell, he has a *right* to ask, considering, but they've both shied away from Tucson. Easier to erase it, pretend that those six hours never existed. Faster, too. Rodney doesn't want to know if John was once friends with Ronon, doesn't want to know if they served together, doesn't think of coming back in their room and finding John's hands hesitant over the body, a look on his face giving him all the answers he's not asking the questions for.

"John." Wherever John is, Rodney wants him back. With a turn of his head, John looks at him, eyes warm, and another kick before John stands up. "Where are you going?" He's still not--comfortable when he leaves. It's perfectly justifiable paranoia, even with one of John's extra guns beside the bed, the one John gave him when they crossed the border--and he doesn't even *want* to know what John paid that border guard to let them cross with the equivalent of a small arsenal and no questions asked. 

"Talk to Concepcion," John says, riffling through one of his bags before bringing out a clean shirt and buttoning the top of his jeans. "Get you stocked with more jalapenos, apparently." The bowl's empty, Rodney realizes regretfully. "Ask if she's seen anything." At Rodney's look, John waves a hand. "Don't worry. Any strangers show up, we'd already know about it."

"It's kinda hot, your relationship with the criminal element." And Rodney's being totally truthful when he says that.

He gets a smile, all white teeth. "I was drinking across the border before I could legally *drive*." And probably whoring--he was an Air Force officer, after all--but Rodney kindly doesn't mention that. "She's an old friend." Translate--great lay. Rodney's John-to-English is improving every day, unlike his Spanish. "Get some rest, I'll be back in an hour."

"Right." Standing up, Rodney abandons the last tortillas for later snacking and collapses across the bed while John methodically puts on his shoes and finds his gun. It's better than television--years working for the Defense Department, and Rodney had never known that guns were sexy. Maybe it's just John, who makes weapons, even hidden ones, look like accessories.

Rodney considers taking out his laptop, but an unfortunate flashback to nearly throwing up on the keyboard from a glance at just the screensaver changes his mind. After a few seconds, John sits beside him, checking his cartridges, before leaning over and picking up Rodney's gun, sliding it under the pillow. "Don't forget where it is."

"Yes, sir." He tries to sound sarcastic, but John's eyebrows arch, so that failed. "Right. I know."

"And don't open the door--"

"To strangers, and don't cross the street without someone holding my hand, and if I see anyone dangerous, hey, don't invite them inside." John chuckles and leans down, brushing a kiss across his mouth, almost too fast to taste. "I think I can remember."

"And lock the door when I leave. Though," John studies the door, still protected by two cases of bottled water. "Never mind."

Rodney snorts into the pillow. "Bring me coffee. And not that shit Pablo or whoever palmed off on you. Good stuff." 

John's hand slides down his bare back, slow and teasing. "I'll hunt down a coffee plantation just for you." Then he stands up, and Rodney closes his eyes before he tries to keep him from leaving. It's practical, he tells himself. It has nothing to do with wondering if John will come back. If John *can* come back. "Go to sleep."

Rodney keeps his eyes closed until the door clicks shut, then rolls over and determinedly thinks of anything but John, alone on the streets of Puerto Vallarta, armed and dangerous but still John, and Rodney knows he'll never not worry.

* * *

The heat's marginally less suffocating at night. Rodney, while he sticks out like a sore thumb in town, can leave the room relatively confident that he won't die of radiation exposure from the baking sun. John takes him to the bar down the road--Concepcion's of course, and Rodney's been polite enough to pretend not to notice the underdressed women, mostly because he thinks it would amuse John far too much.

And they have good beer, which is a big plus.

He tries to carefully not think of the cleanliness of the glasses, because there's no way that can end well.

"I used to come here on spring break," John says as they sit down at a scarred wooden table, putting down his beer with a bright, charming smile at one of the underdressed women. At Rodney's raised brows, he hurries on. "To drink. Hang with my friends."

"Right." Rodney takes a drink. It's cold, and that, right there, is the best thing *ever*.

John's eyes narrow over his own mug. "Just to party. Oh, bueno, Maria," and he blushes, bright and red and painfully cute, and Rodney's night gets even *better*. Maria smiles at him, big and sweet, though, not so cute, and Rodney tries and fails to keep the frown off his face.

"That's why you're on a first name basis with so many of the--women here." He doesn't even mention Antonio or Angelo or whoever behind the bar, who watches John like a lovesick puppy and keeps giving Rodney long, thoughtful looks, like he's wondering if Rodney would make a good filler for a tortilla. It'd be scary if it wasn't so damn funny.

"I spent a lot of time here," with another look. John slumps back, almost sulky--even his hair seems to droop, and Rodney controls the urge to pull him across the table and kiss that almost-pouting mouth. "Stop it."

Rodney leans an elbow on the table. "Stop what?"

"Looking at me like that." The hazel eyes go dark and smoky and if they weren't here for an actual reason, Rodney'd be dropping pesos on the table and dragging John out *right now*. Sex on demand is very new. He's enjoying it. 

Then John's pout vanishes, focus shifting over Rodney's shoulder, and even if Rodney can't see it, he knows John's already shifted a gun into his hand under the table. 

The skin on Rodney's back begins to itch, but he keeps his hand steady and forces another casual drink of beer. He can't even taste it now.

John leans back, elaborately casual, as a figure slows beside their table, head cocked. Without a word being spoken, John kicks a chair out and the figure resolves into a thin, nervous looking man, American by the nervous look, but tense as hell. "Sh--Sheppard?" The guy swallows, looking around the room nervously, and suddenly, Rodney feels like the most experienced and best fugitive ever, because at least he never twitched *that* much.

"Who's asking?"

The guy swallows hard, looking at their beers longingly, and John, always perceptive, reaches out to catch Maria on her next completely pointless stroll by their table. "Traiga tres cervezos, por favor?" It's followed by a bright, ingratiating smile, and Rodney isn't so much jealous as wondering if he can legitimately trip her when she comes back and make it look like an accident when she answers in an incomprehensible mass of vowels and consonants before swaying away.

The guy twitches when John turns back to him. "W-Weir. Sent me." He swallows hard, blinking frantically.

"Can you prove it?" John shifts an elbow onto the table, looking simply curious, but something's happening underneath, because the guy goes tense and white so fast that Rodney has to glance around and make sure no one's watching them. Yes, this guy's an amateur at this. This Weir woman should have better people. "Because I really hate wasting time."

God, that's hot. Rodney wonders if he's going to come out of this with a strong inclination toward a life of crime, because John just makes this stuff looking *amazing*.

"Name?" John suggests, with a little smile, and never has Rodney wanted to bend John over a random piece of furniture more. 

"G-Gary," the guy mumbles, eyes huge. "I--she said that--" He casts a desperate look at Rodney, which is interesting, and Rodney files away the look for future consideration, but John shifts, just a little, and he's giving John his total attention. "Z. Z. Zed. She said Zed. And and--" He swallows hard enough to be visible in space. "She said zed and that you-you'd know what that meant and God, I suck at this."

And like that, John's all slouchy sprawl again. Three beers are suddenly shoved on the table, and Rodney hurriedly finishes his, giving the empty cup to Maria, who doesn't seem to like him nearly as much as she likes John, from the look she gives him when she takes it.

She also mutters something that makes John's head jerk up as she walks away, looking surprised. "Okay, that was kind of rude."

Rodney crosses his arms smugly across his chest. "Just partied here. If by 'partied', you mean--"

"Don't." But John's grinning, eyes flickering back to Gary. "Okay. What have you got for me?"

"Coordinates." Nervous guy calms down considerably after empting his glass.

John smiles. "I like you. Let me buy you another beer."

* * *

The walk back to their room is considerably more comfortable than the walk to the bar-slash-whorehouse (no matter what John says, Rodney was paying attention), a cool clear night full of stars, the smell of the bahia de Banderas thick on the breeze. Rodney thinks a little wistfully of his telescope and his lab, controlling the urge to lean into John every time their bodies brush together.

"So what do you think?" John asks suddenly as they pass the empty stalls of the market. Rodney, surprised, almost stumbles.

"About what?" The unending hotness of John being threatening and scary and how very, very wrong and bad it is that while John's negotiating information, Rodney's thinking of him naked? Probably not.

"Weir's offer." In the dark, it's hard to see his face, but he sounds honestly curious.

"I thought--" Rodney stops, frowning. "I thought you--"

"I'm not going to just drag you out there if you want to go somewhere else." Like they have all these options. "What do you think?"

Actually, he hadn't thought about it. "I--yeah? Okay, what the hell? I thought you had this, you know, *all planned out*. You? Are the daring plan guy. I'm the one that narrowly avoids death and blows up things. We have *jobs* here." He wonders if he sounds as aggrieved as he feels--because really? So not his forte. "So. Do your plan  
thing, and I'll do my blowing up thing, and it's a good division of labor. I see no reason to change it."

"Rodney." And of all things, he sounds *irritated*. "This is your *life*, where you're going to live and eat and it's *Brazil*. If you want to go somewhere else--"

You. Live. Rodney tries not to stumble, because it's not like--well. Had he thought John was going to just--hang around him forever? That's another thing that he hadn't thought about, and maybe he should have. "Oh."

But John's still talking. "I mean, neither of us speak Portuguese, and okay, I've always wanted to see the rainforests, so that might work. And as far as I know they're not really into pursing American fugitives, so--"

"You're--" Rodney almost walks into a wall. John catches his arm, pulling him away before damage can be done, and Rodney realizes they've made it back to their hotel. In the dim light, Rodney can just make out the bewildered look on John's face. "You're--coming with me?"

John's look is wary now, like Rodney took a bad knock to the head and didn't know it. "Let's go with 'duh' and leave it at that."

"Oh." He has absolutely no idea what to say. "I--" God. He wants to ask why, but he has no idea what he'd do with the answer. He can't help the smile, though, and the night's dark and soft and cool enough to get John by the front of his shirt, push him up against the wall, and just kiss him, wondering if John had wondered too, and wondering if this is enough of an answer for them both. "Good," he hears himself saying against John's soft lips, cupping sharp hips, "Good, I wanted you to--" He sucks with conversation. It's so much easier to say it with his body. John can read him like Braille with his fingers, hard on his back and the side of his face and the back of his neck, leaning into him. "Good."

"Did you think," John catches his breath when Rodney bites, gently. Then not so gently "Did you think I'd just *leave* you there?" John's hands spread out on your back, pulling him in. "Still sick, huh?"

"Shut up." All that warm, clean, sweaty skin. Rodney forces himself to pull back, fumbling for his keys, then the door, keeping a hand wrapped in John's shirt before pulling him along with him. John slithers in front of him before he can get inside, flipping the lights on with one hand, looking around the room briefly. Hands on Rodney's waist stop him short, then on his shoulders, pushing him down on his knees. 

Down and John has his gun out, pointing it toward the crack in the closet door. Oh. "You can come out. Or I can shoot. I really don't mind an eternal mystery of never knowing why you were here and who you are. Out." John's body blocks Rodney's view. Fumbling, Rodney feels for the gun John shoved down the back of his pants before they left.

"Jesus, Sheppard." The voice isn't familiar to Rodney, but John untenses just a little, enough for Rodney to breathe. "Nice hospitality. That him?"

"And here I thought I was the one asking the questions," John answers helpfully. Rodney peers around John's legs. "I'll give you to ten. You came with Gary?" A slim, unfamiliar man is sitting on the foot of their bed, arms spread in mock-helplessness. "One, two, skip a few, nine--"

"Yeah, yeah, Jesus, Sheppard." The guy grins, then drops his arms, leaning back in an exceedingly familiar slouch. "Long time, no see. Less armed, more talking?"

After a few seconds, John lowers the gun. "One wrong move--" But he sounds less threatening, more amused. "Your Gary sucks."

"Gary's a good kid." Dark eyes fix on Rodney. "Weir wanted to make sure you were who you said you were." 

Still watching the guy, John pulls on Rodney's shoulder. "Rodney. Lorne. Lorne, Rodney. I didn't think I'd be seeing you again."

From the bed, Lorne--Lorne?--shrugs. "I didn't think you could get him out. I've got to compliment your taste in towns. It took us a while to confirm you were even here, much less where."

Getting to his feet, Rodney reluctantly lets his shirt fall back over his gun and lets John lead him to the table. Picking up a tortilla--sudden near-death *does* make him hungry--Rodney warily sits down. "You know each other, I take it?"

John, pulling the other chair out--between Lorne and Rodney, Rodney notes--nods, giving Rodney a single, flickering glance. "We served together before his little vanishing act." Sliding the gun back in its holster, John rests an elbow on the table. "I guess you're here to give us actual information, not the shit Gary was mumbling. Where is he, by the way?"

Lorne grins. "Changing his pants, probably." Lorne waves off John's look. "Weir didn't want us out here alone. She's really--" Lorne's head cocks. "You know, or you'd be in Switzerland by now." 

Switzerland. Huh.

"That was plan two," John says easily. "Now, you tell me why I should trust you."

"You *know* me."

"I knew Ronon too." John's teeth flash. "I've known a lot of people. Give me better reasons."

Elaborately casual, Lorne sighs. "Look, you contacted *us*. Weir's taking a lot on faith here. There's a bidding war right now on both of you, alive and preferably in one piece." Lorne's grin widens. "Talk about retiring in style."

Rodney reaches for another tortilla. Fear is also a great hunger motivator. "Huh."

John's head swivels around, curious. "Rodney?"

"Gary." Folding it in half, he takes a bite. They're so much better warm. "He was at Colorado, wasn't he?"

Lorne's expression freezes for a second. "He didn't think you'd recognize him."

"I didn't. He recognized me." Another bite. Pushing the tortillas at John, Rodney murmurs, "Eat, would you?" before continuing. "He was working on the damage projections, wasn't he?"

Lorne's head tilts. "Environmental, yeah, with the military's new little toy. Your toy." The dark eyes narrow. "He got out a few weeks before you pulled your little trick."

"And you went with him."

"He sure as shit wasn't going to make it alone." Lorne looks between him and John. "So. We established our good intentions? Or do we continue this for the next week of running and hiding? Because seriously, this shit gets old fast."

John hasn't moved so much as a hair from his lean on the table. "You're on the list, too." John bites the tortilla in half, politely finishing before continuing. "When you said bidding war, you forgot to mention every person who served at Cheyenne."

"I haven't been in the States in a while," Lorne says, shrugging. "And I don't plan to go back. None of us can."

John finishes the tortilla. "Jack must be pissed."

For a second, Lorne's face shows something raw and painful. "Yeah. He is."

Rodney picks up the last tortilla as the room goes silent and thoughtful. Then Lorne stands up. "There's a plane in Mexico City with your name on it, hotshot. Make up your mind. We're at Connie's place."

John tilts his head up, amused. "Concepcion told me. We'll be in contact. Don't drink the water."

Lorne winces. Rodney's stomach twitches in sympathy. "Yeah, I know." As silently as John has ever moved, Lorne vanishes out the door, and John gets up to lock it, looking thoughtful. 

There are a few long seconds of silence as John gets a bottle of water and goes to the closet, warily sliding the door open to glance around inside. Not really worried, Rodney thinks. More habit. After, he drops on the bed, opening the bottle and taking a drink.

"So," Rodney says, with no real idea of what he's going to say.

Dark eyes flicker up, and John leans over, putting the bottle on the floor. "Come here."

Rodney feels his mouth go dry. Dropping the tortilla, he stands up, crossing the threadbare rug. When John sounds like that, he can't imagine disobeying. He can't imagine anyone disobeying. Coming to a stop between John's knees, Rodney draws in a sharp breath at the way John looks up at him. 

John's hands rest on the sides of his thighs, just sitting there, warm, a touch so light Rodney can barely feel it through his jeans.

"Plane?" Rodney says faintly, when John's hands don't move.

"Mmm." The hands slide up in slow increments, achingly careful. "Yes. They're useful. To, say, fly with."

Rodney nods, wondering what on earth they're talking about. "Who is--Lorne's a pilot?"

John's mouth quirks. "Air Force. Of course he is. But no, I'll fly us out." John's hands move slowly to his hips, cupping around bone and flesh, just enough pressure to feel. "Weir is--I think you'll be safe with her. Dr. Z wouldn't go with anyone he didn't trust completely, not after everything." One eyebrow crooks upward, and John's hands slide around to the front of his jeans, thumb moving slowly over the button. "You want to go, we go. You don't, we find another option."

"Do we have other options?" Rodney tries not to notice John's thumb find skin, smoothing rhythmically over the line of hair just above the waist of his jeans. His concentration is shot as is.

"I can make more options." A flicker of movement, and the button's open, John's eyes fixed with startling intensity on the waist of his jeans. Rodney forces himself not to move. "But it's your choice."

"And what about you?"

John's head twists up, giving Rodney another head-injury look. "I go where you go."

Rodney stares at him, completely out of his depth. "Why?"

John's mouth quirks. "Well. I really need a good thesis advisor. And your current schedule seems to be uncluttered, so I thought--"

That's just too much. "You searched for me to tell me I'm an asshole and ask me to be your *thesis advisor*?" He has to touch now, cupping John's face, stubble bright and rough against his palm. "You're just crazy, aren't you? Were you on some prescriptions that have run out since our wild flight from justice? According to the internet, we can get them refilled here, and at a ninety percent savings--"

John casually pulls down the zipper, slow and easy, still smiling up into Rodney's eyes. "You talk too much."

"And you think too little, so I suppose we suit each other." John turns his head, enough to press a kiss into Rodney's palm. "I like that."

"I bet I can figure out a lot of things you like." John leans forward and nuzzles him through his boxers. Christ. He really can. ""What would you like, Rodney?"

Everything. More of this, soft touch and careful hands. More sideways smiles and ruffled hair. More skin. "You. Naked."

John pulls back, looking up for a heart-stopping second before he reaches for the bottom of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head in a single graceful motion. Shoes toed off, one hitting Rodney in the calf. Jeans next, opening them with sharp flickers of his fingers--no underwear, life is *so good*--peeled down and kicked off. Pushing his palms into the bed, John slides back, the definition of sex; sticky sex in overheated rooms under yellowed lightbulbs on lumpy beds. Sex in tiny showers and against splintering desks. Slim, angular body, golden skin, dark hair on chest and thighs and groin, cock hard and red. Rodney's never wanted anyone like this--it's like he's been asleep all his life, waking up all at once, a vivid world of bright colors and sharp feeling, everything edged and intense and he wonders if normal people, other people, live like this, all the time. If John does.

"Rodney." Quiet, dangerously edged. John's dangerous, Rodney thinks, groping for his shirt, pulling it off, hearing something tear and not caring all that much. John's dangerous with his weapons and his smiles and his careless ease, but he's deadly like this, looking like this, sprawled against flat pillows, long and lean and every single thing Rodney had never thought to want, because really, who the hell *knew*?

"I want--" Rodney swallows hard. "I want to fuck you."

The dark eyes go dark and sleepy, mouth soft. "Yeah."

He gets his jeans down, almost falls over when they catch on his shoes, doesn't actually care how this looks when he toes them off and the jeans and boxers after, can't even be sure they're all in one piece. Long legs spread for him, around him, and John's mouth tastes like beer and tortillas and too much adrenaline. There's warm, smooth skin wherever he touches, silky hair, hard muscle beneath his palms, and from somewhere lube materializes, and John *planned this*.

He's brilliant, Rodney thinks feverishly, sitting back on his heels while John watches him, passive everywhere except behind his eyes, the watching like a touch all its own. Brilliant, he thinks again when a condom drops on the bed beside his knee. Rodney slicks his fingers too fast and almost drops the lube twice, but John's expression never changes.

It does change, though--for a second, a flickering that no one who didn't know him would ever see, when Rodney slides one finger inside him. "John?"

John shifts around him, almost--experimentally? Oh my *God*. "You've never done this."

John grins. "Not exactly, no." He shifts again, thoughtful, and Rodney imagines that tightness around his cock, has to stop himself from pulling his finger out and just *going* for it, except-- 

"Seriously?" 

John looks irritated now. That shouldn't be nearly as sexy as it is. "Yes, seriously, no I haven't, career military, and could you--" Rodney obediently slides a second finger in at John's urging. "*Oh*."

It may be new to John, but it's not new to Rodney. He pushes John's thighs farther apart--thank God for combat training and the US military, they keep their people *fit*--and *pushes*, with a twist that makes John arch, surprise rippling across his face. "Do that again."

Rodney can do that. Bracing a hand besides John's shoulder, he pushes back in--all that slick tightness around his cock, don't think about that, soon, soon--and John mutters something and pushes onto his fingers almost desperately--oh, this won't last long at all--and John's face just *changes*, eyes wide and surprised. One foot braces on the bed by Rodney's hip. "More."

More, yes, and Rodney could forget everything at that expression on John's face, the sinuous twists of his body, and he has to kiss him, take in those tiny breathless sounds John makes with every thrust, John's cock brushing against his stomach with every twist, and John's *panting* now. 

When he pulls back, John's eyes are glazed over, and he can't seem to focus anymore. "Rodney--" but it's like he forgot how to talk, breathy and losing half his consonants. "Rodney--"

"Yeah," Yes, now, and Rodney pulls out his fingers, tears the condom with his teeth and slides it on, pushing John's thighs wider, wondering vaguely if this will take any time at all. John's eyes flutter rapidly when he presses the head of his cock against him, almost tensing, and Rodney leans down to kiss him again, using everything he's ever learned, but he hadn't, couldn't be ready for this.

 Nothing, no one, could have prepared him for John, though, and he keeps his mouth, holds him open, and when John draws an unsteady breath, pushes inside. Oh *God*, that-- "John." 

"Oh," John says vaguely, and Rodney lifts his head enough to see John's eyes shut. Freeing one hand, Rodney reaches for his face, brushing shaking fingers through John's hair, sweat breaking anew on his forehead. "Yes." And that's permission, that's as good as a please, better, because John stops talking and just breathes, short and hot and his hands close over Rodney's ass, pulling him in. "*Fuck me.*"

Pulling out as slowly as he can--he really, really wants John to be able to *walk*--he carefully moves back in, as slow as he can when John fingers are bruising in their grasp and he's murmuring things that sound like 'faster' and 'more' and 'fuck', liquid sounding and desperate. "Please," he says, opening his eyes, and Rodney gives up control, screw slow, and screw calm too. John's hot and tight and begging and he looks *drugged*, and no one's ever looked that hot.

John's cock brushes against him at every thrust, wet tip painting patterns on his stomach, and he kisses John because the sounds are going to kill him. Soft, wet, desperate mouth, sucking at his tongue, breathing in sweat and sex and John, and he can feel John's body start to shake, thrusts in *harder* and John's head goes back, tearing his mouth away and gasping, one hand going to brace on the headboard when he pushes himself back on Rodney's cock, arching with a sharply indrawn breath and a full body shudder. Rodney's mouth feels empty, licking a stripe down John's throat, biting when John comes hot against him, thank *God*, and he goes with it, thrusting one more time into convulsing warmth and wondering if he's going to die. Nothing's ever felt this good.

They lay there, gasping in a sweaty, sticky heap, one long leg wrapped around Rodney's thigh, just daring him to try and move. Rodney's not sure he can.

Blissful afterglow. Mexico is the best place *ever*.

"I like Puerto Vallarta," Rodney hears himself say breathlessly, pushing himself up on one elbow and reluctantly pulling out, feeling John wince around him, one hand closing tight on Rodney's shoulder, then a slow, shuddering breath when Rodney collapses beside him, tossing the condom in the general direction of the trash can by the bed. "And that was--" But he gives up there, nosing John's shoulder instead, running careful fingers over the bite that's going to be a spectacular bruise on John's skin. He wonders if there's a good excuse to go back to Concepcion's and drag Maria over to see that. Antonio-Angelo-whoever, too.

Rodney sucks at sharing, so much.

"You know," John says thoughtfully, and he's trying for easy, Rodney can tell, and Rodney'd believe it if John's voice wasn't shaking, "I kind of like it here, too." Long fingers trail curiously over his hip, and John rolls to his side, hissing softly before he settles again, pulling Rodney closer, soft cock nudging Rodney's thigh.

"We'll like Brazil," Rodney says, sliding an arm beneath John's head, and it's too soon to get hard again, he's in his *thirties* for God's sake, but his body isn't quite aware of that point of simple biology. That's fine--bio's barely a science anyway. He brushes careful kisses to John's temple, and John just goes boneless, like a cat being petted. Rodney runs a hand up the length of his back, slick and unreasonably soft for a former member of the military. "If you're up to it."

John tilts his head back, and God, that smile, huge and bright and exhausted. Rodney tries not to be too smug. "Yeah. I think I am."


End file.
